


Show Your Face (and Finish What You Started)

by kyojinouji



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Childhood Friends, Dating Bet, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Happy Ending, Ice Skating, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Too Many Metaphors, Wooyoung also tries his best, Yeosang tries his best, some innuendos, the amount of misunderstandings in this is a metaphor for 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28326129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyojinouji/pseuds/kyojinouji
Summary: Summary: ❅ Sometimes it takes a gratuitous amount of meddling to spill the truth.A fic where parents know no boundaries, college students would rather lie than pay full price for ice skating, and winter seems endless. ❅
Relationships: Background Kim Hongjoong/Jeong Yunho - Relationship, Jung Wooyoung/Kang Yeosang
Comments: 14
Kudos: 65





	Show Your Face (and Finish What You Started)

**Author's Note:**

> For [@sanrelics](https://twitter.com/sanrelics) ! 
> 
> This is my piece for the Writiny Secret Santa~ ! I wanted to use all three prompts, but I have the attention span of a sentient raindrop so the other twgot a little smushed around. 
> 
> I hope everyone's holidays are fantastic and that you're able to find peace and joy amidst the chaos of this year.

> _ “Pink toes press against the carpet; _
> 
> _ Show your face and finish what you started. _
> 
> _ The record spins down the alley– late night. _
> 
> _ Be my friend, surround me like a satellite.” _
> 
> **_East of Eden_ ** _ \- Zella Day _
> 
> * * *

His laughter was like orange soda. That was the first thing Yeosang noticed about the boy with round glasses and a gap-toothed grin as he chased one of the girls on the playground around with a bubble wand. His giggles were fizzy and vibrant– brighter than the sun. Except, Yeosang didn’t think the sound could ever fall flat. 

Jung Wooyoung was carbonated serotonin and Yeosang was just a ladybug drowning in whatever he left behind.

As they got older, Wooyoung’s laugh stayed that way– bubbly and brilliant. It was intoxicating, the kind of song that you played on repeat until it made your ears buzz with unfiltered static and your brain ache. That was to say, Jung Wooyoung was loud. Beautiful, boisterous, and  _ goddamn loud _ . 

Even so, Yeosang would never trade him for the world. Ten years of friendship under their belt, there wasn’t a thing that Wooyoung didn’t know about the older. He couldn’t get rid of Wooyoung because then his entire book of secrets would be on display for the universe to gawk at. Not that the brunette would ever do that, though. 

And there it is, that starburst melody. It bounces to him from across the room, dancing around their dorm wildly. Wooyoung’s arms are wrapped around himself as San tickles the space under his ribs for what feels like the hundredth time that evening. 

As Wooyoung squeaks, rolling wildly around his mattress, Yeosang has to fight back a different kind of fizzy feeling. Like an ember in the pit of his stomach, jealousy sizzles at the sight. Jung Wooyoung was orange soda and Yeosang was really,  _ really _ drowning in him. 

So, he pushes back the green monster that claws at his chest and closes his laptop with a sigh. Lacing his fingers together, he stretches his arms far above his head.  _ Casual _ . Always act casual. 

When he stands, the wooden legs of his chair scraping loudly across the tile, both boys stop whatever game they were playing. Yeosang freezes in place, all hopes of sneaking out of the room dashed instantly. As their attention settles onto him, he grants a sheepish smile in their direction. 

“Dinner?” he mumbles, not truly meaning for it to sound like a question. A question makes it seem like an invitation. And an invitation means dealing with whatever  _ that  _ situation is for an entire meal. Thirty to forty minutes in a cramped dining hall, crowding one of the tables they’re able to snag, and no doubt collecting all kinds of attention from Wooyoung’s massive social circle. 

But an invitation it becomes when Wooyoung rolls off the bed, a wide grin spreading across his face. 

“I love dinner,” he says, already scrambling to their small shoe rack Yeosang’s mom bought them for the room. “Were you going to one of the halls or out somewhere?” 

“I still have meal swipes left,” Yeosang mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “So, the dining hall? Do you both still have some?” 

San frowns for a moment before flipping himself over on Wooyoung’s bed. “I might,” he says, reaching for his phone. “Let me check, though. I hate getting there and finding out that I used my last one to cover a three-cent runover on a pack of Oreos.” The last part comes out as a murmur as he fidgets with the university’s janky app. 

It’s not like Yeosang would let the other man starve. More than once, he swiped the rest of their friends in when they accidentally spent their remaining swipes at the market. His parents had selected the largest meal-plan the school had available and he hardly even had time to eat once a day, let alone three times. Every week, he was left with at least fifteen swipes and nearly one-hundred dollars to use at the campus shops. 

“Oh sweet, I still have four,” San shouts, springing off of the bed to charge the shoe rack. “I might even be able to stock up on snacks for movie night.” 

As Yeosang leans down to pluck his Doc Martens from the pile, he catches the wicked look in Wooyoung’s eye. Forget orange soda, the man was as vicious as Fireball. 

“Someone seems to be forgetting,” he says, leaning forward with a devious chuckle, “movie night was canceled this week. Since we didn’t get to do anything for my birthday, I decided that we’re going ice skating at that rink that opened up.”

San groans at that and slumps against the wall dramatically. Hand clutching over his heart, the black-haired boy sticks his tongue out of the corner of his mouth to play dead. Wooyoung makes a strangled noise and whaps the other’s leg a few times rapidly.

“You promised!”

“You begged,” Yeosang pipes in, focusing intently on the yellow laces of his boots as he tries unsuccessfully to tie them without making bunny-ears first. When Wooyoung turns on him, his dark eyes are pleading.

“I’m the birthday boy, so I get to decide who lives and who gets crushed by a rogue pair of skates.”

“You were the birthday boy a week ago,” San supplies as he finally tugs a bright, red wool coat over his shoulders. “Now, you’re just a boy.”

“A man!”

“A boy,” Yeosang agrees, dodging an ill-aimed slipper as it zips past his left ear. Yeah, whatever San and Wooyoung had going on was insufferable. However, like it or not, they were also two of the only people he could tolerate in this world.

Walking through campus was always a challenge. If it wasn’t for the beautiful way snow settled on the trees or the way the dusk graced the skyline, he would never leave his room in the winter. This was their last free week before finals set it and probably the last time they would be grabbing dinner at the dining hall as a full group until the next semester came to kick their asses. So, maybe that was why he didn’t regret letting the invitation slip– even when Wooyoung threw it into their group chat. 

The eight of them had all been smushed together in the weirdest of ways. Of course, Yeosang and Wooyoung arrived as a packaged deal. Wooyoung’s job as a library barista then brought Hongjoong and his high school sweetheart Yunho into the picture. And San arrived when Wooyoung ‘accidentally’ dumped an entire iced- coffee down the boy’s shirt during the before-class lunch rush. 

Yeosang, on the other hand, always had a difficult time making friends. He wasn’t shy, so to speak. Or really, he was. But it had never been so painful until he made the potential mistake of a lifetime. During orientation, he had accidentally signed up for a coding course. By the first day of classes, he realized that he never wanted to touch anything to do with computers again as soon as the words ‘partner-assignment’ left his professor’s mouth.

It was a room of over one hundred people, and yet, Yeosang didn’t know a single soul. Maybe that was why he felt blessed by the heavens when a red-haired boy leaned over to him with a gummy grin. So, with Jongho came both Mingi and Seonghwa. 

It would be a lie to say that their little group always got along. When Yunho and Hongjoong fought, they always expected their friends to pick sides. In the past, Yeosang didn’t have a large enough circle to ever feel the need to do so. Nearly everyone he interacted with in high school had been drawn to Wooyoung’s bubbly personality and brilliant smile. No one had ever asked for Yeosang’s opinion on things. 

But the first night Yunho showed up outside their dorm, eyes puffy and red, Yeosang knew that this would be a different ball game altogether. Yunho wasn’t in search of comfort from Wooyoung, who wasn’t even in the room at the time anyway. Instead, he had come to Yeosang after a massive fight with Hongjoong about feeling ignored. 

“He’s always working,” Yunho had mumbled, curling in on himself in the fluffy beanbag chair they kept in the corner of the dorm. “Sometimes, he makes me think that he just runs to the studio so that he doesn’t have to see me. We’ve been together since we were fifteen, and I don’t expect him to be glued to my side, but I didn’t even know he dyed his hair pink until it was already fading.”

And Yeosang had no idea what to say to that. Wooyoung had always been a free-spirit, never tied down by anything, and Yeosang liked space. And, no matter Yeosang’s hidden feelings, they were only best friends. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what was going through Yunho’s mind when he spoke of his lover.

However, that didn’t stop him from letting the older rant, cry, and yell about how insignificant he felt compared to Hongjoong’s projects. By the time he exhausted himself, Yeosang had forced a fuzzy pink hoodie over the man’s head, ruffling his black hair wildly, and let Yunho pull him into a hug. 

“I think you should bleach your hair,” Yeosang finally said after the older had grown quiet for far too long. “See what Hongjoong does if you do the same thing he did to you.”

“Have you ever bleached hair before?”

And Yeosang thought about it. There had been one time, in high school, when he thought it would be cool to add highlights to his naturally dark strands. And it worked until the roots grew out and made it look choppy. 

“Yeah,” he responded with a shrug. “I don’t think I did it right though.”

“Then, it’s time to learn again,” Yunho said, grinning. His cheeks were still damp and eyes puffy, but he looked brighter. Less like a crestfallen prince and more like a buttercup pressed between the pages of a children’s book. 

Youtube had never failed him this far in life. So, when it instructed him to go to the nearest Sally Beauty’s Supply, grab a few packets of violet lightening powder, 40 volume peroxide, T18 toner, and purple shampoo, he didn’t question it. And yet, when Yunho’s hair turned a crunchy, banana yellow, he realized that maybe even Brad Mondo couldn’t save them.

When Wooyoung walked back into their dorm room after his dance practice, he nearly dropped to his knees after catching a glimpse of the eldest’s horrified expression. Between strangled gasps and giggles, he held up a single outstretched palm. 

“Wait. You let Yeosang do your hair?” 

“Of course!” Yunho cried and pulled the hood of Yeosang’s windbreaker over the lemony monstrosity. The sight of the tiny cat ears attached flopping wildly only sent Wooyoung into a louder spiel of laughter. 

“Why would you ever do that?” Wooyoung asked.

“I trust him!” 

“Did he mention the bubblegum incident?” the youngest murmured, already digging through his duffel for his cellphone. And it was then that the memory slammed into Yeosang like a freight train. “There have been two times that Sangie has ever done his own hair. Once, when he wanted some pretty highlights. And another,” he said, turning the cell’s screen to Yunho. 

On it, a picture of high school era Wooyoung and Yeosang appeared. Wooyoung’s hair was black and his skin had been painted with a light grey Mehron paint. It would have been Snazaroo if Homestuck hadn’t been in full swing that same year. Two dots, simulating a vampire bite, had been drawn on the side of his neck; though it was hardly visible past the red and black plaid flannel. 

Beside him, arm thrown around his shoulders, was a glob of what could only be described as a prince dipped in bubblegum pink. Wooyoung, after going through a weird kick of his Adventure Time obsession, had begged Yeosang to cosplay Prince Gumball and Marshall Lee for their school’s annual Halloween dance. And oblige him, Yeosang did. 

He had gone all out for the costume. More than willing to spend nearly a hundred dollars gathering materials and props, he never had expected a decent wig to be so pricey. So, rather than dropping another thirty on something styleable from Arda, he chose to dye his own natural hair.

A pink mop of crunchy, wavy bits that turned out a dozen levels more vibrant than the character’s pastel tones was what he ended up with. And honestly, he didn’t mind it much. But looking back, he knows exactly why Wooyoung brings up that disaster. 

“You’re lucky,” Wooyoung said with a grin, “I know how to fix this.”

So, they bleached the strands one final time, treated Yunho’s hair with an Ion emergency repair kit Wooyoung had stashed away, and laughed when the toner actually did its job. When Yunho’s hair was a stunning silver, they fell onto their beds and smiled at the ceiling. Someone had asked for Yeosang’s help. And even though it didn’t work according to plan, Yunho seemed more relaxed than he did when he got there.

“You can stay the night, you know,” Yeosang had mumbled, following the older man to the door. Sleep pulled at his eyelids with every word.

“I ran out on Hongjoong. If he didn’t lock himself in his studio, he should still be in our room. I’d be a hypocrite if I just disappeared without telling him,” Yunho said as he waved goodbye. 

It was later, when both Wooyoung and Yeosang were getting ready for bed, the dancer brought up the couple’s fight. 

“Did he tell you what he said to Hongjoong?” Wooyoung asked to the dark of the room. He had long since tucked himself into his covers and Yeosang was under the impression that he had already fallen asleep. 

The question, unexpected to say the least, made Yeosang stop in the middle of brushing his teeth. Lit only by the yellow bulb of their sink-vanity, he turned with a frown to see the glint of Wooyoung’s eyes peeking at him from the sheets.

“No, he was pretty upset so it was mostly just rambling,” he finally said, spitting the mint foam out of his mouth. It hit the porcelain with a disgusting  _ thwack _ , but he quickly fumbled with the faucet to rinse it down the drain. Emotions, he thought, could be the same. Just washed away in seconds, if you let them. 

“He called him a bunch of shit,” Wooyoung mumbled. “But Hongjoong said that the worst thing was that Yunho accused him of cheating.”

“He what?” Yeosang whispered, his minty breath buzzing his lips. “He didn’t mention that, no. But Woo, you have to understand where Yunho is coming from too.” He could hardly focus on what he was saying as he flipped the light switch by the mirror. 

The darkened room was cradled by silence as Yeosang climbed into his bed. Beneath the sheets, he could hardly hear Wooyoung’s response. However, one thing was certain. As the words left his best friend’s mouth, Yeosang realized that it was the first time they would stand on separate sides. 

“Let’s agree to disagree.”

“And I said that he couldn’t perform ‘Sexy Back’ in a high school auditorium,” Mingi yelled, mouth full of half-chewed waffle. He was motioning wildly around the dining hall, flecks of syrup dripping onto the table, and narrowly missing Jongho’s eye with the fork. 

“But I did,” Seonghwa shrugs. “It wasn’t that big of a deal. It’s just a song.”

“A song built on innuendos and sin!” The utensil pointed at Seonghwa like a sword held by a befallen king. It was slightly off-center and most certainly not well-aimed, but its sticky surface was enough to do some damage. And it seemed like Seonghwa was ready to wrestle it out of the younger’s fingers at any second. 

“Out of every song, why would you pick a Timberlake one?” San asked around a mouthful of Trix. Their university was well-known for a lot of things, but most of all, their horrendous meal options. Breakfast for dinner was always the safest bet in the large cafeteria. 

Seonghwa only grins and wiggles his eyebrows, avoiding the question entirely. The past twenty minutes had been simply a recounting of Mingi and Seonghwa’s high school experience, and while lively, was probably the cause of Yeosang’s growing headache. So, sue him if he was a little thankful for the lull in the conversation. 

Poking around at his half-full plate, Yeosang watches an ill-fated piece of sausage roll dramatically from one side to the other. It was like a tiny ice-skater, unknown to the world. It only took a second before someone punctured it with the tines of their fork. The sight of grease pooling around the metal and onto the ceramic beneath it is enough to make Yeosang’s stomach flip queasily. 

Wooyoung shoves the remaining bite of meat into his mouth with a shark-like grin. As soon as Yeosang rolls his eyes at the display of pure thievery, the boy lets out a loud cackle and throws his head back.

_ Orange soda–  _ like Yeosang’s forgotten drink sitting beside his plate. Orange soda like a blessing from the heaven’s on a hot summer’s day. Even in the winter, icy and bitter, Wooyoung is radiant. Until those stupid words fall out of his mouth like a twisted song. 

“So, ice skating. This weekend.” As he said it, a groan arose from the table. 

“Why couldn’t you pick something easy? Like bowling?” Hongjoong mumbles, slamming his forehead against the table’s wiggly surface. The whole thing jostles unpredictably, sending the group into a wild scramble to hold it still. 

“Because I suck at bowling,” Wooyoung says, eyes narrowing. “And, it’s my choice. You all got to celebrate your birthdays this year. Let me have fun.” 

The last bit quirked up with an ounce of saccharine drip; enough to make the second eldest stare back bashfully. Wooyoung had a way of wrapping everyone around his little finger, but somehow he had weaseled himself into Hongjoong’s heart like a younger sibling. An absolute chaos gremlin of a younger sibling, at least. 

“I don’t think it’s expensive. There’s a six-dollar fee to borrow skates, but there’s a university discount so we don’t have to pay for entry.” 

Truth be told, Yeosang had nothing against ice skating. Hell, he had even binged an entire anime about it once. Or maybe twice. Definitely not three times just so he could see one of the characters gain confidence while falling in love with his shamelessly attractive coach again.

That being said, it seemed like a wonderful time– for those that were coordinated in all things balance. Unfortunately, walking in a straight-line was enough of a nightmare. To be able to move an inch on ice with blades strapped to his feet? It was one-hundred percent a request to lose his fingers; or someone else’s. 

“What about a movie night?” Yeosang mumbles, finally lifting his cup to his lips. He hardly can move out of the way before Wooyoung is trying to smack his shoulder. 

“No! I know what I want, so you all just have to suck it up, babycakes.”

And God, Yeosang knows that the pet name is something that his friend calls everyone. He knows that the butterflies that spring to life in his chest should go back to sleep instead of trying to pop clean out of his ribcage. But that doesn’t mean they will.

Instead, he feels his face heat up as a flush covers his cheeks like a warm blanket. After over a decade of this, he should be used to Wooyoung’s flirtatious nicknames and puppy-dog expressions. But he certainly isn’t. 

So, quickly he chugs his leftover soda and excuses himself to the restroom.  _ Fucking ice skating.  _

By the time the weekend rolled around, the event had implanted itself in Yeosang’s mind as an inescapable labyrinth of certain death. Or just impending embarrassment. Especially as he pulled a Thrasher hoodie from his closet only to have a particular someone slap it out of his hands.

Beside him, Wooyoung wore a pout. Arms crossed over his chest, his roommate made a noise of disapproval when Yeosang scoffed and tried to pick the pile of black fabric off of their floor. Groaning, the older stood upright and gestured between the dancer and the closet built into their dorm wall. 

“Are you going to explain why you just threw my clean clothes onto the floor?” Yeosang grumbles, wiggling his fingers. “Or am I supposed to use that psychic link you apparently think we have?”

“We probably do have one,” Wooyoung grins. Nonetheless, he said nothing else as he pushed past Yeosang. Thumbing through the hangers, he searches through Yeosang’s wardrobe until something catches his eye. With a smile, he pulls out an orange, oversized sweater and acid-washed denim jacket. 

Silently, he shoves them into Yeosang’s arms before puttering back to his side of the room and tossing his body onto the bean bag. 

“What am I supposed to do with these?” 

“Wear them?” The statement comes out more like a question, tilting at the end. “It’s my birthday so I get to decide–”

“The outfits,” Yeosang mumbles, not bothering to fight the younger. One way or another, Wooyoung would force him to do what he wanted. At this point, it was better just to agree instead of arguing any further. 

To be fair, the style isn’t something he would usually go with. Especially not as Wooyoung suggests an olive green beanie and black, ripped jeans to finish off the look. However, it’s not atrocious. And if it made the other boy happy, even just for a few seconds, it was worth it. 

It’s only when Wooyoung throws on a nearly identical outfit that Yeosang stops to process what is happening. Although the man has opted for a grey hoodie instead of a sweater and a black beanie, the overall look is eerily similar. 

“Is there something you’re not telling me?” Yeosang asks slowly. Each word is drawn out, as though he’s giving Wooyoung a moment to connect them before he finishes the sentence. Maybe to form a good excuse.

However, the boy only shrugs and offers a casual, “nope”, with a popped ‘p’. From that point on, Yeosang can feel his muscles tense up with every passing moment. He didn’t know what the other was planning, but it had to be something. 

They meet the others just outside of their building. San is carefully picking his way along one of the stone planters that sits just outside the front door; mimicking a tightrope walker. When the metal latch of the exit clicks open, the brunette startles and tumbles off of the concrete lip. 

“Took you long enough,” Hongjoong calls. His hands are cupped together and despite his red wool gloves he blows into them. Yunho, obviously noticing his boyfriend’s discomfort, reaches for his palms and shoves them into the pocket of his puffy winter coat. 

“Blame Yeosangie,” Wooyoung offers. 

“You’re the one who couldn’t remember how to tie your shoes,” Yeosang grumbles. Without missing a beat, Wooyoung sticks his tongue out and skips over to where the rest of the group waits.

“Yeah, but you could have just done it for me. So, blame Yeosangie.”

As their gaggle travels down the brick paths of the campus, Yeosang knows how ridiculous it is to have even an inkling of hope that maybe, possibly, Wooyoung meant more than for them just to wear matching outfits. After all, the boy had picked them himself. If there was a meaning hidden within the action, Yeosang wanted to be the first to know. Obviously. 

It’s only when he glances up and sees the way San’s dimpled smile makes a radiant appearance that the notion disappears completely from his mind. Wooyoung and San weren’t a thing, but these days, it seemed like they might as well be. And if it took San’s galaxy eyes to make Wooyoung look like all of the stars in the universe were hung just for him, then so be it. 

But that didn’t make the fizzy feeling in Yeosang’s chest dissipate. It didn’t make the ball of yarn that was his heart loosen any further. Instead, it threatened to pull tight and never let go. 

“Yeosang?” Jongho’s voice was soft as he sidled up to the older man. They had fallen far behind the rest of the group, but not enough so that anyone else seemed to care about slowing down. Even Hongjoong, with his little legs, was keeping up with his giant boyfriend. 

“Yeah?” he mumbled in response, tossing dark strands out of his eyes. The beanie wasn’t much protection against the chill of the winter wind. And it most certainly wasn’t doing much for his hair.

“You okay?” the youngest asks, a bizarre expression marring his usually contemplative features. “You look like someone pissed in your cereal this morning. Not that I would put it past Woo, but,” he filtered off as his gaze landed on San and Wooyoung in the distance. San’s arm was wrapped securely around Wooyoung’s waist as the two of them yelled about the difficulties of ice and brick.

And better than anyone, Yeosang knew that look. It was the same feeling that flipped through his stomach every time he glanced at the duo. Bitter acid and molten ick. 

“I’m just tired,” he says, smiling when Jongho’s features turn into a disappointed grimace. So, with a heavy heart and whispered tone, he smiles. “We can text about it later if you want?” 

Obviously, the response is exactly what the red-haired boy wants as he bursts into that tell-tale, gummy grin. It’s blinding and playful as he offers Yeosang a sharp nod. 

“I’d like that. Thank you, hyung.”

The younger’s expression is probably the only thing that stops him from turning around and heading back to the dorms. With the chilled wind biting his cheeks, it brings a bit of warmth to his skin as they continue down the path. 

“How do they even make a skating rink?” Mingi asks, leaning heavily against Yunho who bats him away quickly. The two were like large puppies, all bark and no bite. However, on more than one occasion, there had definitely been both bark and bite. No doubt, it was partially the fault of Hongjoong’s own personal vendetta against the entire friend group and his particular penchant to sink his teeth into everyone’s flesh.

“You could Google it,” Seonghwa throws out, narrowly dodging Mingi’s fingers as he aims to flick the oldest’s forehead. “I’m just saying, you’ll probably get a better answer that way.”

“Now, why would I do that?” Mingi laughs. “Especially when we have the Encyclopedia of Yeo right here.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Yeosang says as he says across the asphalt horizon of the skating rink’s parking lot, “But I have no fucking idea. They probably just throw some ice-shit down.” He fights the urge to turn on his heel just as the plastic barricades of the space appear in view. 

Wooyoung makes a betrayed noise, turning around just enough to point a finger in his best friend’s face. 

“What is ice made of?” The man says quickly, watching as the group falls eerily silent. “Guys, seriously. What do you need to make ice?”

“Water?” Yunho shrugs. 

“Duh,” Wooyoung whips back to their destination. “It’s just layers of water.”

Instead of pointing out how flimsy the statement seems, Yeosang holds back a tired sigh and presses forward. After all, it wasn’t like he was an ice rink specialist. If Wooyoung had suddenly become one, so be it.

It’s only when they take their places in line that Yeosang has a moment to really collect his thoughts. However, the second that he notices the chalkboard attached to the ticket booth, he can’t stop the giggle that bubbles up from his throat.  _ A couple’s package. Free skate rental. _

How many poor bastards were forced to strap blades to their feet just because their partner wanted to try skating for the first time? Were there a lot of casualties? 

As they reach the front, Hongjoong pulls Yunho beside him. She asks if they’re a couple and Yunho responds by pecking Hongjoong on the cheek sweetly. In a few more swift sentences, the girl at the desk checks their student IDs, passes over a pair of skates, and ushers them to the benches where they can change and store their shoes. Mingi, Jongho, and Seonghwa all make their way up individually to pay their separate dues. 

And for a moment, Yeosang’s brain misfires as he almost expects Wooyoung to follow San to the counter. However, he stays rooted in place as the dark-haired boy wanders away from them. 

“Aren’t you going to go with San?” he hears himself ask. Maybe, it’s the winter air tickling his nose; numbing him to the potential repercussions. Or maybe, it’s a chance to finally ask Wooyoung exactly what his relationship with the theatre major was. But when his best friend cocks his head and raises an eyebrow, Yeosang realizes he is more lost than ever. 

“Why would I go with San?”

What he also isn’t prepared for is the way Wooyoung grabs his wrist as the girl calls for the next guests to make their way forward. 

“Oh, aren’t you two cute! I love your outfits,” she smiles as Wooyoung pushes both of their IDs toward her. When did he even pull Yeosang’s out of his wallet? And why were they standing up here together? None of the other singles did that.

He’s ready to brush it off and to dig his money out of his pocket when he feels Wooyoung wrap an arm around his waist. At first, it’s just another weight. However, the other man tightens his grip significantly when Yeosang squirms against the sudden warmth. 

“You want the couple’s package, right? You won’t have to pay for skates or a ticket since you’re also students. It’s a pretty good deal.”

“Sure,” Wooyoung says with a brilliant smile. “My boyfriend will probably need to save all the money he can. It’s his first time skating, so I can guarantee that we’ll end up at the hospital after this.” 

Every word is like a separate lava rock dropped into the pit of his stomach. At first, he’s hooked on the comment of him being clumsy enough on the ice to wind up at the ER. He  _ has  _ seen an anime about ice skating, for goodness sake. 

However, it’s then that the term  _ ‘boyfriend’  _ really rams itself against his ribcage. He doesn’t even have time to process it before Wooyoung’s lips are pressed against his cheek.

It’s brief– like a hummingbird’s wings beating relentlessly to keep it afloat. Then, in a breath, the soft warmth is gone. Fluttering away as Wooyoung rambles off their shoe sizes, grabs their skates, and pulls him to the changing area. 

“What was that?” Yeosang mumbles, pinning Wooyoung with a leveled gaze. The boy grins and offers him a quick shrug before tugging one of his shoelaces. 

“I saved us money, didn’t I?” he asks, ignoring the way Yeosang groans under his breath. “I don’t know why you have a problem with it. It was just a forehead kiss. You’ve had my tongue in your mouth before,” as he says it, a flush blankets Yeosang’s cheeks in seconds.

At fourteen, neither of them had their first kiss. It was to be expected, looking back on it, and was incredibly common for people their age to not have done so yet. But for some reason, Wooyoung thought they were missing out. 

“It was one time, Woo,” Yeosang finally says, tugging off one of his boots. “We were kids. You were gross.”

“I’ll have you know, I’m a wonderful kisser!” Wooyoung exclaims, throwing his hands up. It draws the attention of a few individuals around them and immediately makes the burn of embarrassment dance in Yeosang’s chest. And for a moment, he wants nothing more than to run back to the dorm in just his socks. 

Thankfully, someone cuts into their conversation before they can continue entertaining the gawkers. 

“Hey, lovebirds!” Mingi calls as he glides past the plastic barricade of the rink. Evidently, the tall blonde didn’t really need anyone’s help with navigating the ice. “You coming with? Or are you going to keep bickering like a married couple?” 

He pushes off of the wall and moves about his merry way, but not before shooting Yeosang a sympathetic look. One that held far too much knowledge. 

“You have to hold my hand,” Wooyoung finally says as he stands up. The laces on his boots have been securely tied, looking professional and clean. Yeosang’s, however, were a haphazard disaster wired by the little gremlin in his brain. 

Instead of fighting it, Yeosang offers his arm to the younger boy with a grimace. If they were a couple, even for now, they had to sell it. Not that he believed the girl at the counter would kick them out if they weren’t into public affection. 

When Wooyoung finally slips his fingers between Yeosang’s, the brunette offers a soft smile. 

“I know I should have warned you, but I was just scared you wouldn’t come with me,” he says, tugging lightly in the direction of the rink entrance. “So, you can be angry after we have fun.”

“I’m not angry,” Yeosang says softly. “This is your birthday. You get to decide what happens.” 

And so, when Wooyoung laughs and spills the bubbly carbonation of orange soda through the airwaves, Yeosang knows he can hold on just a little bit longer. If only just for tonight. 

In the pale sunlight of the early afternoon, Yeosang’s phone glows an awkward lemon-yellow. Especially as he scrambles, still half asleep, to answer the call that must just be so important the person has tried to reach him three different times. 

“Hello?” he grunts, rolling onto his back. A glance at Wooyoung’s digital alarm clock shows the threatening time of 12:07 pm. He hadn’t meant to sleep in so late, but what did it truly matter? It was the weekend and they had gotten back from skating around 3 am.

“ _ Kang Yeosang! _ ” a voice rattles off into his ear. It’s a sharp sound, edged with glass. And it is also one-hundred percent his own mother.

“Good morning–”

“ _ Do you answer your phone ever? I’ve been trying to call you for nearly ten minutes, _ ” she says quickly, only pausing when she processes his phrasing. “ _ Did you say good morning? It’s the middle of the afternoon. Where is Wooyoung? Isn’t he supposed to make sure you don’t sleep your life away? I told him– _ ”

“Mom,” Yeosang groans, finally sitting up. “I had a late night, I’m sorry. Was something wrong?” 

There’s a pause where, for a breath, Yeosang thinks that maybe something devastating happened to someone in their family. And then, she says the only thing that can catch him entirely off guard.

“Do you not love me anymore?”

“Excuse me?” he exclaims, nearly dropping his phone into the endless sea of blankets. “Why would you possibly think that?”

“Because you, Kang Yeosang, dared to hide your relationship with Wooyoung from me?” 

As his jaw drops open, he cannot stop himself from wondering if the crack was audible to her too. Maybe, it would have been if she wasn’t already ranting into the receiver about this, that, and the other thing. All the while, never mentioning exactly what had led her to believe such a thing. 

"Wait, Mom, hang on,” he pleads, internally screeching when she doesn’t. “Mom!” And this time, her tirade lulls gently. “What are you talking about?”

“The pictures, Yeosang,” his mom mumbles. “The ones your friends Yunho and Hongjoong tagged you in on Facebook? I mean, the picture wasn’t of  _ you _ , but you were definitely in the background.”

“They tagged me in a picture?” For a moment, he can’t even begin to process how he missed such a thing. There was no way either one had woken up early just to post selfies on a dead website that no one but parents and aunts fifteen-times removed used. 

“You went ice skating, I assume?” When he grunts out a distorted confirmation, already minimizing the call screen to flip to Facebook, she continues bitterly. “The two of them snapped an adorable photo of themselves. Precious couple, really, Yeosang. They’re both cut out to be on the front of a home magazine as the world’s most stunning–”

“Mom,” he groans, accessing the notification. And as his mother dives into the finale of her grand slam argument, he sees it. 

“Wooyoung was kissing your forehead in the background! You were wearing matching outfits and there were dozens of couples around you all. Sue me if I think my son could ever swing a beauty like Jung Woo–”

“Mom,” he mumbles, not quite processing the tangent. “I’m not dating Wooyoung.”

“I call bull. There’s evidence.” He hears the phone shift against her cheek. “Besides, why would it matter if you were? I don’t know why you felt like you had to keep this from us. You know, Ms. Jung and I have had a bet going for as long as I can remember.”

“You bet on your own kids?” he gasps. The situation would probably be hilarious if not for the flush burning his cheeks. “Did you at least win?”

She’s quiet on the other end for a moment. 

“Depends,” she says slowly, “who confessed first?”

When Wooyoung returns from his run, he’s met with the sight of Yeosang hunched over a cup of noodles, knees pulled to his chest, in the corner of the room.

“It’s half past noon and you already look like an on-fire garbage can,” the brunette murmurs, brushing past to fill his water bottle at the sink.

“Says you, sweaty,” Yeosang retorts, using the back of his hand to wipe his mouth. Wooyoung snorts, revealing his stupidly bright smile. When he takes a sip from his water bottle, Yeosang pretends not to watch the way the other tips his head back. 

Does he probably look ridiculous focusing on his empty ramen dish? Of course. Will Wooyoung brush it off as disappointment that he was out of food? No doubt.

“So,” the younger sings, leaping onto his mattress. There was no telling why the university chose bed frames that were nearly four feet off of the ground. “When did we start dating?”

The question makes Yeosang stop poking around at the styrofoam in his hand. Instead, the chopstick he was using goes straight through the bottom of the cup.

“You got a call too?” Yeosang laughs. 

“Yeah, dude. Can’t say Mom was too thrilled to find out I confessed first.” Wooyoung’s smirk grins when he winks. “Seriously though, what made you go along with it?”

“My mom said that the bet was over whose New Year’s party they’re going to this year. It was between the Lee’s and the Kim’s. Mom has some casserole based vendetta against Mrs. Kim right now, so I figured helping her a bit was probably the best option.”

“Selfless,” Wooyoung chuckles, “but you know, it means we have to keep up the charade when we go home, right?”

The thought stops Yeosang immediately. 

It had crossed his mind– not as a neon sign, but rather a dull flickering light in an apartment complex hall. Easy to ignore. 

“I mean, we can just come up with something else–”

“No!” Wooyoung yells suddenly, throwing his phone onto his comforter with a wide-eyed stare. “No, no, I want to.”

“You want to?” Yeosang repeats. Slowly. Like icicles melting from an overhead awning. “Why would you possibly want to lie to our families?”

Wooyoung is quiet for a moment, fiddling with the string of his grey hoodie. Much longer and Yeosang might close the distance between them just to pull the hood shut. Maybe that would end the conversation after all. 

“Would dating me really be that bad?” the younger murmurs, his voice hardly above a whisper. Rather than responding earnestly, rather than spilling his guts about how it would be the complete opposite of negative, Yeosang fumbles. 

He trips and spirals over his words; ending up with the one thing that could only make things worse.

“Yeah,” Yeosang says bluntly, avoiding the way his heart hammers against his ribs like a morbid kick drum. No matter the way the lie burned like acid on his tongue, he couldn’t say what he really felt. The monster under his bed. “San would probably be pissed,” he adds.

He doesn’t look up in time to see the dejected look flicker across Wooyoung’s features. Instead, he only watches the younger roll himself off of the bed and grab for his shower caddy. 

“Why do you keep bringing San up?” Wooyoung asks quietly, throwing a fluffy navy towel over his shoulder. 

“I just thought…” he filters off, staring somewhere into the middle distance. “You like him, don’t you?”

It’s that moment that Wooyoung’s expression sours. Soda falling flat in the heat of the day.

“Is that what you think?” the younger mumbles, his eyebrows tugging in the center. “I’m going to shower.” 

He leaves before Yeosang has a chance to respond. Even if he had one, he isn’t sure he would know what to say.

It isn’t until Wooyoung bursts back into the room, hair still dripping at the ends, the conversation comes full circle.

“Date me,” Wooyoung demands, closing their door behind him. Yeosang must look like a deer in headlights. His brain goes absolutely blank; mirroring the bouncing ‘Windows’ logo on the screen saver of his mind.

“Excuse me?” he asks slowly. 

There were things that he expected to hear out of Wooyoung’s mouth– like laughter and stupid jokes. But that sort of proclamation was never on the list.

“Date me,” Wooyoung repeats, throwing his caddy onto the ground. His purple foam shower flip-flops skitter into their shoe pile. “We’re going home for break and our parents think we’re dating already. So, let’s make sure your mom doesn’t have to go to the Kim’s stupid party.”

“What about our friends?”

“They don’t have to know.”

“And what about after the holidays? Won’t our moms think it’s weird when we ‘break-up’, but have no hard feelings?” Yeosang sighs, rubbing circles into his temples. Wooyoung giggles, leaping onto Yeosang’s bed to hang upside down.

“We’ll come up with something,” the younger says softly. “Let’s just have some fun with it. Maybe you’ll realize that I’m not a terrible boyfriend.”

And that’s the problem. Yeosang didn’t want him to be a good boyfriend. He knew, all too well, that Wooyoung was an impeccable lover. Wooyoung treated his exes like sunlight and lavender; delicately, but met with brilliant warmth. To call Wooyoung his, even when laced with dishonesty, was to hold utopia between his fingertips. To crush that illusion after everything was said and done would be the thorn tearing through tender flesh.

And yet…

“Okay,” Yeosang groans. “Whatever. You win. I’ll date you.”

Wooyoung could bottle his laughter. He could sell it for millions.

And Yeosang would buy every one.

By the time break rolled around, Yeosang had yet to adjust to the idea. Finals were all-consuming. When the suggestion came about to either have dinner with their friends or nestle deep into his blankets until his last exam of the week, it surprised no one that he stayed behind.

“Want me to bring you anything?” Wooyoung asked, pulling on his coat. Instead of responding, Yeosang only grunted and curled up further in his nest. It was a warm sight, but obviously, not one that Wooyoung approved of at the threat of missing a meal.

Even so, the younger pushed out the door and wandered away, leaving Yeosang to visit the backs of his eyelids. 

When he woke up again, the room was dark; save for the sink light and the tiny mushrooms glowing in the wall socket. On his desk was a takeaway box of chicken and fries. It was such a subtle gesture, one between friends, but Yeosang can’t stop the sudden nauseous roll of his stomach as their conversation hits him again.

_ “Maybe you’ll realize that I’m not a terrible boyfriend.” _

Yeosang takes a bite of the chicken, letting the sauce melt on his tongue for a second. 

Playing house would give him a chance to sort through his emotions— to be on the receiving end of whatever Wooyoung was giving. And then, it would be over. So, why did it already make his chest ache like a hundred red roses begged to blossom from within his ribs?

“You have everything?” Wooyoung calls, slamming the trunk of his ancient Honda SUV. It teeters slightly, jostling the takeaway cup of iced-coffee balancing on its roof. The beast was old, rickety, and rusting around the edges, but it got them places. And that was what mattered.

So, Yeosang spits his lanyard out of his mouth, the keyrings slamming into his chest like tiny meteors, and frowns.

“You’re asking me if I have everything?” he repeats, staring back at the younger. When Wooyoung’s brows pull together in the center, Yeosang sighs and points to the cellphone on the hood of the car. 

Wooyoung’s eyes go wide as he scrambles to grab his nearly non-functioning iPhone with a garbled, “I-wasn’t-going-to-leave-it-there!”

“Didn’t say you were going to,” Yeosang shrugs, snagging his coffee from the roof and sliding into the passenger seat. “Just figured that corpse you carry around doesn’t need to meet its end yet,” he grins.

Wooyoung huffs and gestures wildly as though it explains anything at all.

“Don’t talk about her like she’s not here! Now, get your feet in the car before I close this on your toes.”

When the door slams shut, there’s a moment of silence that fills the space before Wooyoung climbs into the driver’s seat. It’s a bubble caught in the winter chill, crystallizing slowly as ice sets in over its surface.  _ Peace _ . The calm before the storm.

And then, the younger bursts it with a high-pitched laugh as he tumbles into the car. 

“Do you want the aux?”

“Are you going to play only BTS’s discography for the entire three-hour ride?”

Wooyoung pauses for a moment, something obscure crossing his expression before whispering a soft, “Maybe?”

“Give me the cord. I love you, I love them, but I need variety,” Yeosang mumbles, fumbling around the console as the other starts the car. 

“You still have that  [ collab playlist on Spotify ](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6Ta4iE8myDy3sElPPpoePg?si=xmbaNbSlR-GfIAfWzcTFNA) , don’t you? Just use that.” The vehicle roars to life with Wooyoung’s voice. “I’ll invoke my right as the driver to take control though if you put ‘Ribs’ on repeat again.”

“Lorde is a goddess and you’re a coward,” Yeosang mumbles but nods nonetheless. There had been a time when they both relied on their shared playlist in high school. It could have been filled to the brim with ‘Hips Don’t Lie’ or ‘Toxic’, but instead they had used it as an outlet– a way to let the other know that they were going through a rough patch.

But scrolling through the options as Wooyoung pulls out of the parking garage, Yeosang feels an odd pang. So many of these songs held memories that he wasn’t even sure he wanted to touch. More than a few were painful and laced with buried feelings. Yet, he lets his thumb settle onto the shuffle button just as Wooyoung merges onto the highway.

_ “Sat back with the window down. Eighty an hour and the radio loud. The same songs with the same old rhymes. Tell me to shake it off and swing from the lights…” _

With the familiar rhythm, Yeosang settles into his seat. It’s almost aggravating how well the song fits his current situation. But when Wooyoung’s voice begins to filter into the car, he thinks that maybe, he can deal with the anger. 

Instead, he listens to the beautiful words that drip from Wooyoung’s lips. The younger sways like lake reeds in the summer breeze, despite the winter chill around them. The afternoon sun dances along his lashes, creating the illusion of celestial grace. Even when he swerves dramatically to swerve roadkill on the side of the road. Even when Yeosang’s cheek stings from where it slams into the window.

Even when the asshole chuckles, issuing a snide apology, and continues singing as though he didn’t just rattle his best friend’s brain.

“Oh Wonder hits differently now,” Wooyoung says as the song ends. There isn’t a second for Yeosang to process what was said before the first few beats of ‘Dog Days’ are blasting through the speakers. With a sigh, the older resigns himself to resting his head against the door. 

“You car sick?” Wooyoung asks, already fumbling for the bag at his feet. “I grabbed Dramamine before we left campus. Here.” Scrambling to catch the white tube of medication that Wooyoung rockets toward him, he squawks. 

“I didn’t say yes!”

“You didn’t need to,” the brunette says with a frown. “I know you. I’ve seen the signs.”

And while he’s wrong, the statement does something to Yeosang’s heart. It clenches, elastic and tense, before he lets out a shuddering breath and nods. Maybe he was car sick. 

Nodding, Yeosang twists off the cap and spills one of the pills into his hand. Its blank white surface taunts him. 

“You know once I take this, I’m going under, right?”

“You always do,” Wooyoung says with a soft smile. “But I’d rather you sleep the whole way home than have you look like you’re about to black out.”

“Both things end with me being unconscious,” Yeosang mutters as he pops the chalky tablet into his mouth. The bitter taste of god-awful chemical coating dances on his tongue. Grimacing, he pulls a long sip of his coffee to wash it down.

“I’ll wake you when I stop for lunch. If you need me to pull over, just let me know, okay?” his best friend says tenderly, twisting the stereo knob until the music is nearly white noise.

While he knows the drowsiness won’t kick in just yet, it’s just another subtle way the Wooyoung cares for him. Just like he would any of their other friends. So, Yeosang closes his eyes just as Wooyoung’s quiet singing begins to flit around the car like a hummingbird in an empty warehouse.

Wooyoung keeps his promise. He wakes Yeosang at the half-way point for lunch and lets him sleep again the rest of the way home; the motion-sickness medication having finally knocked him out entirely. But when they pull up to Yeosang’s childhood home, just around the block from the Jung’s, Wooyoung does the unexpected. 

“I’ll help you carry stuff inside,” he says, already moving before Yeosang can tell him not to. Plead him, rather, knowing what would happen once they crossed the threshold of the house. That didn’t mean that Wooyoung took pity on him.

“Woo, you know my mom is going–”

“To what? Ask us to hug?” The other boy throws one of Yeosang’s duffles over his shoulder with a grin. “We’re home for almost a full month. You better get used to it,  _ boyfriend _ .”

And with that, he pirouettes away, leaving Yeosang still buckled securely into his seat. 

Walking into the house is easier said than done. As soon as the door creaks open and they begin to toe out of their shoes, the hammering sound of a turtle herd echoes through the entryway. 

“Kang Yeosang!” his mother barks, skidding to a stop in front of the main landing. The hardwood floor creaks under the sudden weight. It was like she appeared out of thin air, despite the ruckus that came with her arrival. 

Hands on her hips, the tiny woman stares at him like she’s going to throw him across the room before she even considers hugging them.

“Mama,” he says, trying to school his expression into something calm. Even when she lets out a cry and rushes forward, wrapping her arms around his waist, he feels guilty and absolutely anxious.

“You always text when you guys are on your way. Why didn’t you this time?” she pouts, pulling back only to whack him on the shoulder a few times.

Wooyoung laughs behind him, slipping his shoes into one of the wooden cubbies on the rack. 

“He was busy drooling on the leather interior of my car,” the younger grins, giggling loudly when Yeosang’s mother turns her affections onto him instead. “Auntie, I missed you!”

“I missed you too, sweet boy. I’m working on something in the kitchen if you have a minute to come help?” 

Wooyoung bounces on his heels excitedly and trails after the older woman. When Yeosang tries to follow them, the younger waves his pseudo-boyfriend off.

“She didn’t say you,” he sings before disappearing out of sight.

“I’m her son!” Yeosang calls, no bite intercepting his words. Really, it made his heart flutter to see Wooyoung interact with his mother. She always had a warm spot for the boy and his orange soda brilliance. That fizziness puddles in his stomach as he climbs the stairs, one bag over each shoulder; their warm voices trailing him. 

It hurts how badly he wants this to be his forever.

It’s only thirty minutes later, when Yeosang is knee-deep in unpacking his belongings, that familiar arms snake around his waist. Gently, Wooyoung tugs him backward until his back presses against the brunette’s chest. And for a moment, he lets himself relax into the touch before realizing just how intensely he should be questioning it instead. 

“She was coming up to bring us apples,” Wooyoung whispers. His breath tickles the shell of Yeosang’s ear, just enough that a shiver runs down his spine. Their height difference was hardly anything, and yet, it was obvious at that moment. Even with the inch that Yeosang had on him, why did he feel like Wooyoung’s prey? 

“Can I at least hang up the shirt I’m holding?” the older mumbles, his dark hair tumbling into his eyes. “It’s going to get wrinkled.”

Wooyoung chuckles, the soft puff of air making Yeosang’s hair dance against his cheek. Just as he does, the sound of his mother’s slippers  _ tup-tup-tupping  _ down the hall echoes through the space. 

“Showtime,” Yeosang grimaces and feels Wooyoung shift against him. It’s only when the footsteps draw closer that the younger’s grip on his waist tightens. “What are you doing?” he breathes, unsure of how close his mom is.

“Trust me,” Wooyoung says, his lips brushing the back of Yeosang’s neck. Butterfly wings settling over milkweed. Yeosang feels it then, those same fluttering movements in the depths of his stomach. Especially as Wooyoung begins to sway their bodies carefully. A silent waltz. 

Yeosang is ice cream on a summer sidewalk. His edges bubbling, sugary thick goo, while the center tries to remain solid. It clings desperately to the past it knows– the only form it has ever been. But the sun knows only love. It knows to hold what it adores close, cradling them in its warmth for the rest of the universe to see. But it doesn’t understand, truly, how to care for something in moderation.

So, Yeosang melts into Wooyoung’s embrace. The move to a nonexistent beat, whatever song plays in the younger’s head on a constant loop, and Yeosang says nothing as his mother clears her throat behind them.

Instead of leaping apart, Wooyoung spins them around slowly so that they face her. And what Yeosang doesn’t expect is the way her expression has seemingly mellowed. 

“Apples,” she offers with a smile. Over the years, he has heard hundreds of people compare the way his eyes crinkle up at the corners to hers. He wonders, for a second, if he’ll have the same crow’s feet when he’s older. After the years have treated him well as he’s found a home in his wanderlust soul. 

The plate she sets on his desk is piled high with slices of fresh fruit. The ruby-red skin has been nicked at one end of each piece, a sharp triangle missing from each, to resemble delicate rabbits. It’s a sight that makes Yeosang’s chest constrict with the cotton candy clouds of nostalgia. 

“Thank you, Momma,” he says quietly, finally managing to wiggle out of Wooyoung’s snake hold. As he does it, however, the younger boy whines pathetically. 

“Auntie, I don’t think Yeosang loves me anymore. He’s more interested in food.”

“Bold of you to assume I loved you at all,” Yeosang mumbles, not quite hearing his own voice until a moment too late. He sucks in a sharp breath, terrified to meet his mother’s eyes. Was anyone keeping time? Did he set a record for ending his fake-relationship the fastest? 

Mrs. Kang, however, only giggles. 

“I didn’t realize you were already at the ‘I love you’ stage,” she says, cocking a hip and settling it against the doorframe. “But I suppose you two have always said it. Not much would change now just because you threw an extra label on it.”

And as she walks back down the stairs, holding the rail just as any sensible person would, she doesn’t realize that she also carried off the last remaining wisps of Yeosang’s sanity. His heart is charcoal and crumbling like dust with every beat.

“I guess she’s not wrong,” Wooyoung says as he bites into a slice of the scarlet fruit. “You were probably the first person I ever said ‘I love you’ to.”

Yeosang frowns and reaches for his own piece. “What about your family?” he asks, letting the sweet juice coat his tongue. As he swallows, Wooyoung pulls a face.

“I mean outside of family, nerd,” he mumbles. “Speaking of, I should head over there. Mom probably thinks that I’m dead in a ditch somewhere.”

Yeosang can't fight the sudden existential dread that drips down his spine like neon ice. It’s toxic, terrifying, and by far the worst experience of his day. Even then, it’s unexplainable– until the rubber soles of Wooyoung’s shoes squeak on his way down the sidewalk.

For the first time in months, they won’t be waking up in the same room. There will be no early morning fistfights over who gets to brush their teeth first. No agonizing over chilly showers because a certain someone preferred to douse themselves in the fires of Hell. No leaving the sink light so no one stumbled in, drunk off their ass, and cracked their nose against the door room tile. 

_ No Wooyoung. _

And somehow, that thought alone makes his breathing stutter. 

The next time he sees his best friend, the boy is sitting on the Kang’s front step with his laptop bag and a duffle. It’s just past 2 AM, but when a text came through saying that the other needed help, Yeosang was out of bed in an instant. 

“Mom has a new boyfriend,” Wooyoung says, shouldering open the door ahead of Yeosang. “They’re loud, I can’t sleep, and I don’t want to stay there.”

“My mom didn’t mention anything like that,” Yeosang mumbles but doesn’t stop the other boy as he slips off his shoes and shoves them into his cubby for the second time that day.  _ His cubby.  _ On the second row, the third one from the left. It was always Wooyoung’s.

“Well,  _ Vanessa _ doesn’t seem like she wants to talk about this one.” The words are laced with venom as Wooyoung utters his mother’s English name. “I didn’t even know he was coming over for dinner. Hell, I didn’t know he existed until his ass was in my dad’s seat.”

It was a topic they never talked about– a taboo Yeosang wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole if it threatened to bite him in the ass. When they were in middle school, Wooyoung’s dad walked in on his wife hooking up with one of the grocery clerks from down the lane. He stayed for a while, longer than Yeosang would have in his position, before crumbling under the weight of everything. When he left, he took Wooyoung’s brothers.

From that point forward, Wooyoung had two Christmases and a laundry list of his mother’s rebounds.

“Are you okay?” Yeosang murmurs. Maybe it’s a stupid question, after all, why else would the younger be here. Wooyoung, however, doesn’t seem to be too irked by it. 

“Just tired,” he shrugs, already leading them up the stairs. Even in Yeosang’s own house, Wooyoung carved their metaphorical path through life. And for some reason, it doesn’t bother him nearly as much as it could. Especially when his best friend beelines for his mattress and jumps onto it with a giggle.

It’s soft, induced by exhaustion, and doesn’t really reach Wooyoung’s eyes. But it is light. Light enough that the bubbly carbonation settles in his chest, dancing like a thousand excited bees. 

“You coming?” Wooyoung mumbles into the sheets, already snuggling in. Like he belongs there. Like there was ever any other place for him to go.

“Yeah,” he replies, tentatively thumbing the hem of his sleep shirt. His spine cracks as he settles into the mattress, sparking a loud laugh from the gremlin that has turned Yeosang’s room into its own. “Woo, stop, you have to be quiet,” he grumbles, smacking the other gently. 

“What are you going to do?” Wooyoung whispers, managing to rein in his madness for a moment. “Spank me?”

In the dark of the room, there’s no way that the blush spreading along his cheeks is visible. Even with the silver mist moonlight tickling his skin. And yet, it doesn’t stop the gasp that leaks past his lips. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Yeosang groans, rolling onto his side. Wooyoung shifts behind him. “If you spoon me right now, I might bite you.”

“Unfortunately,” his guest whispers, “I’m into that.”

He squeaks when Yeosang flicks his temple.

By morning, when the peachy tones of the sunrise create a distant horizon on the light blue of his childhood room, Yeosang can feel the weight of Wooyoung’s arm thrown over his waist. The other’s bare arm, warm with sleep, presses against the space where Yeosang’s shirt has ridden up. His skin is on fire under the other’s touch, but Wooyoung’s eyes are still closed. 

At some point in the night, Yeosang must have rolled over. Which meant that not only was he face-to-face with the very person who haunted his every waking thought, but also that he was being caged against Wooyoung’s chest. 

Yet, he doesn’t move. 

Instead, he stares at the way Wooyoung’s dark eyelashes feather against his cheeks. They’re long and thick, like raven wings cast into midnight skies. And Yeosang giggles, low and rough in his throat, when he imagines them lifting Wooyoung off of the bed– flying off to the place his head always seemed to be. 

That’s the thought that pulls him back into a rosebush of glittery dreams. The kind where petals fall like raindrops and the birds sing lullabies. 

When he wakes up again, it’s to the sound of a camera shutter. So, of course, he jolts out of bed, far from Wooyoung’s reach, in search of the culprit.

His father stands in the doorway with an impish grin encompassing his features.  _ Wonderful _ .

“Dad,” Yeosang half growls, “did you just take a picture of us?”

“Obviously,” the man says with a shrug. From his nest still beneath the covers, Wooyoung snorts. It’s too early in the morning for this.

Or rather, the afternoon according to the 1:39 pm that glows on his phone. 

“Why?” Yeosang asks, this time flopping back onto the bed so that he lands partially on top of Wooyoung. The younger groans, but does nothing to adjust their position. 

His father’s shoulders come up again. 

“Your mom is at work. I figured I would send her a precious picture of her favorite son in law.” 

Yeosang sucks in a sharp breath. Right; the lie. The stupid spur of the moment idea that he knows is the same as walking a tightrope without a net. He’s never going ice skating again.

Wooyoung finally maneuvers himself into an upright position, pulling Yeosang with him. In any other situation, it would be a casual gesture. The kind that no one looks at twice, because that’s just how they’ve always been. But right now, it makes Yeosang’s entire body tense up.

Wooyoung must sense it because his fingers splay out over the older’s stomach, wriggling until he intertwines their hands. His thumb works a tiny circle into Yeosang’s first knuckle. And, God, he’s so gentle.

Yeosang might actually be glass. They’ll find out for sure one day. Whenever this whole thing comes to an end and Wooyoung lets his hold slip. When Yeosang shatters on the tile of their dorm room like his grandmother’s favorite vase. He just hopes that something pretty, like lilies or bluebells, spill out of the destruction.

“I didn’t hear you come by last night, Wooyoung,” Yeosang’s dad says, finally moving away from the doorframe. “Did your mom have someone over?”

“Hopefully just her flavor of the week,” Wooyoung says. There’s a hint of a laugh there, beneath words dripping with bitterness. Maybe Wooyoung is milkweed. Sweet until the surface is scratched. 

“Well, you’re always welcome here,” his father says with a smile. “I assume we don’t need to make a ‘leave the door open’ rule, do we?”

“Dad!” Yeosang cries. He doesn’t have time to grab a pillow to throw before his father is cackling and bolting down the hallway. And Wooyoung evidently thinks it’s hilarious too. 

In the afternoon light, he has no chance in hell to hide the blush that decorates his cheeks. Especially as a butterfly lands on the corner of his eye– just upon his birthmark. 

Wooyoung’s thumb brushes over it delicately.  _ Like fucking glass _ . Why was he always so careful? Yeosang had seen him with others, but never like this. The intimacy in his touch is the moment before a polaroid picture develops fully. It’s filled to the brim with the notion that the image may smudge under heavy fingerprints. 

“I wish you didn’t cover it at school,” Wooyoung breathes. And then suddenly, he’s climbing out of bed and slipping on his socks. 

“Where–”

“I should probably head home,” the younger interrupts. His expression is distant, not quite matching whatever energy had evolved in the room only seconds before. “Mom might think I was kidnapped.” He tacks on a grin, for added sparkle or maybe something else. 

“Do you want me to walk you out?” Yeosang asks, already moving toward the edge of the mattress. But instead, Wooyoung holds up a peace sign.

“Nah, dude.” He pulls his black hair into a small ponytail. When did it get so long? When the elastic snaps into place, he finally stands up slowly. “If your dad asks, I’ll just say that you’re too tired to get your lazy ass out of bed.”

This time, Yeosang does throw one of his decorative pillows. The cactus pattern slams into the squealing brunette. If he was more awake, he’d probably have a witty comeback. Something like,  _ ‘you’re a prick’. _ But he elects to just huff as Wooyoung waves goodbye.

When Yeosang finally makes his way downstairs, nearly an hour after Wooyoung left, his dad is leaning against the counter with a smug expression dancing on his face. He’s cradling a mug of coffee as though it isn’t nearly 3 pm. Probably for the warmth. Possibly because he knows it adds to his ‘inquisitive historian’ look when paired with reading glasses and a newspaper.

“Do you need something?” Yeosang asks, raising an eyebrow as he fumbles with a box of cereal from the pantry. He hears the mug’s ceramic base tap against the laminate. 

“I may have lied earlier,” his dad says. “Definitely heard Wooyoung come in last night. His laugh bounces off the walls. But I have a more important question.” He pauses just long enough for Yeosang to arrange his meal and bring the spoon to his mouth. Just as the sugary goodness hits his tongue, the bomb is dropped.

“Are you using protection?” 

It’s an understatement to say milk went everywhere. 

“Excuse me?” Yeosang gags out, scrambling to swallow. From the tipped over bowl, liquid drips steadily onto the floor. In the chaos, it’s irritatingly consistent.

His dad holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender. 

“I’m just saying! You guys can be as loud as you want, lord knows that I won’t ever shame you two, but I just want to know if you’re being safe.” He tosses Yeosang the roll of paper towels from beside the microwave.

And for a moment, Yeosang just stands there dumbly. His mouth open, cradling the bundle like a lost child, and blinking slowly. Hopefully, his eyes close in sync. But really, the shock of the conversation might be enough to offset that balance like a coding error.

“I…” he stops. What could he say? That they never had sex? That they weren’t even dating? That this was all a clever ruse built upon the fallen empire of his dignity? 

Instead, he sucks in a breath and sighs. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he mumbles, “Yeah, no. We’re fine. Condoms are being used.”

“No one is in pain?” God  _ forbid  _ his nurse practitioner father not push the topic in an even worse direction.

Yeosang squeaks, his sock suddenly damp as he steps back into the puddle of milk. Maybe it was enough that he could drown himself in it. 

“Nope, all fine! Please stop asking before I drop the entire carton next.”

Yeosang’s dad grins and picks up his mug to take a drawn-out sip; not once breaking eye contact. Whatever this man heard in the night was most certainly not what had happened. However, they were far too into this game for Yeosang to back down now.

“Well, just let me know if there’s anything we can do to make things more comfortable,” his father says before focusing his attention back on the newspaper on the counter. 

_ Incredible _ . It’s one of the first conversations he has had with his dad since coming home, and yet, he is already planning the best way to fake his death.

“I’m gonna…” he motions vaguely at the mess with a grimace. “Yeah…”

His dad chuckles but otherwise says nothing as he watches his son fumble around the kitchen like a newborn lamb. There was one thing for certain: he was going to kill Jung Wooyoung.

That night, he’s sitting on Wooyoung’s couch. The younger has his feet resting in his lap, head resting against the cushioned arm. Whatever Hallmark movie that Ms. Jung had been watching before leaving for her date plays in the background; a forgotten memory of cardboard feelings.

It’s something about a baker from Chicago falling in love with a prince. The plot is convoluted, like Parent Trap meeting Princess Diaries on a slippery slope leading straight to railroad tracks. Yeosang only hopes that these people know how to ice skate. 

“He’s stupid,” Wooyoung grumbles. His eyes are closed, a frown painting his lips, as Yeosang’s attention falls on him. 

“The prince? To be fair, he thought she was royalty the entire time–”

“My mom’s boyfriend,” he interrupts, shifting suddenly. Yeosang wonders if his neck hurts with how quickly the other sits upright. “When I came back from your house, he was sitting at our table like nothing was wrong.”

“Was anything wrong?” the older asks, adjusting the weight of Wooyoung’s legs onto his other thigh. The dull thrum of pins and needles has already started beneath his skin; no doubt his limbs are already asleep. It becomes obvious when Wooyoung lifts his heel in the air just enough to slam it back down. 

Yeosang yelps as the static spreads sharply.  _ Asshole _ .

“He exists, Sang. That’s the problem,” Wooyoung cries. “He just looks like a smug bastard all of the time. You know that picture you always send me of the cat with a knife?”

“Knife cat?” Yeosang asks slowly, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah! The dude looks just like him.” 

“He’s a human person,” he says, fingers tracing the bottom of Wooyoung’s sock-covered foot with a smirk. The boy squawks, throwing himself onto the floor and away from Yeosang. “What, ticklish?”

“You know I am, you toad!”

Instead of staying away for long, though, the brunette rolls around and leaps back onto the couch with a wicked grin. The movement jostles Yeosang enough that he scrambles to hold himself upright and fails miserably. As his spine presses into the soft cushions, he realizes exactly where he went wrong. 

Wooyoung, devious and gremlin-oriented, has somehow managed to force him onto his back. His firm thighs straddle Yeosang’s waist, holding him in place, as one hand pins his wrists above his head. The other is glued to his side, where his t-shirt and hoodie have ridden up pathetically. And Wooyoung, with that stupid orange soda laugh, tickles his ribs like butterfly wings and dandelion puffs. 

Yeosang thrashes wildly, screeching like a banshee, but the younger doesn’t budge. 

“Stop!” he laughs, tears already forming in his eyes. He squeezes them shut. Wooyoung doesn’t know how to show mercy, however, and that’s a lesson Yeosang had learned years prior. The boy was nightmarishly competitive. 

And yet, everything stops all at once. The world comes back to him, slowly and blurrily, as a stray tear rolls down his cheek. By the time it seeps into the fabric of the cushion beneath him, Wooyoung’s expression is blank. 

He stares down at Yeosang, eyes glittering with wonder. The fairy lights hanging from the Christmas tree behind them, pushed into the far corner of the Jung’s common room, illuminate Wooyoung in a cradled halo. He could easily be the angel on top of the fluffy pine. 

“Woo?” Yeosang whispers, taking in the carnation pink flush that graces the brunette’s cheeks. “You alright?” 

He nods in response but says nothing. 

And there it is again, the fizzy feeling in the pit of Yeosang’s stomach. Orange soda and a rootbeer float. He’s melting and he knows it. Especially as Wooyoung moves closer, his forehead resting against his best friend’s. 

It’s a gentle weight. Grounding and peaceful. A petal of fragrant wisteria drifting upon a hidden forest pond. Vanilla-scented, but lighter. 

And that’s what Wooyoung smells like. Vanilla and jasmine. Especially as his hair tickles Yeosang’s cheek– as he moves closer until their lips are hardly a breath apart. 

“Can I…?” 

Yeosang wants to say yes. Everything in his heart crying for the chance to finally know what it feels like to kiss Wooyoung. To feel the way he’s cradled gently; always glass. Always crystalline.

But he hears the rattling of keys against the front door. The lock turning swiftly and clicking into place. And they don’t break apart, because that would be suspicious, but they do freeze as Wooyoung’s mom stumbles into the threshold.

Snowflakes dance in her dark waves, salt and pepper roots nearly hidden beneath the glittering ice. She tosses one red heel toward the stairs and another haphazardly into the rank before collapsing just inside the front door. Her plaid dress has a dark stain on it. Wine? 

As she pulls her knees to her chest, the black tights she’s wearing showcase the threadbare sections where the delicate fabric has been torn. 

So, the boys waste no time clamoring over to her. As Wooyoung pulls her to his chest, she lets loose a heavy sigh. The tears are sure to follow. 

“I told you he was an asshole,” Wooyoung whispers to Yeosang. And the older boy whacks him as Ms. Jung laughs through the pain. “When do you want us to place a hit on him, Mom? Just give me the word. We’ll do it.”

“San would probably be more than willing to break him like a board,” Yeosang adds, being pulled into the bear hug. 

And God, they would need to talk about whatever that was earlier. But for now, there were some things better left unsaid.

Wooyoung avoids him. 

Not blatantly, but in a skillful way that makes him wonder if the whole thing had just been part of his imagination. Whenever Yeosang’s parents ask about him, he just brushes it off as the younger being busy. 

“He has other friends,” Yeosang mumbles, Christmas Eve already off to a particularly boring start. “He was spending tonight at his dad’s house.”

His mom hums, taking a bite of the noodle dish she made for dinner. She uttered off some expensive Italian name when she dished it up, but Yeosang had hardly been paying attention. He couldn’t really. 

“It’ll be nice for him to see his brothers again,” she says with a soft smile. “It’s not often they get to spend time together. Unlike you two.”

While it comes out as a simple comment, Yeosang knows something is bubbling beneath the surface. It’s the quiet question of ‘ _ where has he been? _ ’ and ‘ _ you’re always together _ ’. And still, he doesn’t answer. 

Even if he did, he isn’t sure what he would say. After all, he did nothing wrong. 

“Is he coming over tomorrow?” his dad asks. Knife raised, sitting delicately between his fingers, Yeosang would rather it plunge into his heart. “It’s your first Christmas together.”

“First one as a couple, you mean,” his wife says with a chuckle. The rose that graces her cheeks is a blessing from the wine. Or maybe, a curse. For Yeosang, it has always been the latter. 

He hopes his face isn’t as flushed as it feels.

“He’ll be here,” Yeosang says quietly. “He wouldn’t miss it.”

Until he does. 

By 6 pm on Christmas evening, Yeosang has given up hope. He could have texted the younger, begged him to come forward, and bring some kind of explanation for the silent treatment. But did a week of no contact really warrant that? They weren’t actually together. Yeosang had no claim to stake on any portion of Wooyoung’s time. 

So, he lays on his family’s couch with a pout and his Switch cradled firmly in his hands. The screen illuminates with some cut screen of a battle scene as the three houses collide for yet another dramatic fight. While darkness has yet to settle over the room entirely, the dusk dances through like a visage drawn from ash. Delicately falling into place minute by minute– sand in an hourglass running low. 

Just as he watches a spear be thrown at his character’s love interest, knocking the beautiful man forcefully from the back of his wyvern, there is a thumping sound at the front door. Before he can adjust his position, legs still tossed over the arm of the couch while his head dangles precariously close to the edge, a face appears in front of him. 

Wooyoung, hair wild and wavy, is carrying a bouquet of roses. Maybe it’s the memory of what happened the last time the two saw each other or just the way Wooyoung looks ethereal in a black hoodie and ripped jeans, but Yeosang’s breath catches. 

“Merry Christmas,” the brunette says, his smile finally reaching his eyes. The warmth is there. A beacon in the frigid night. “You didn’t call.”

“You could have too,” Yeosang finally whispers, rolling until he’s upright. Even upside down, Wooyoung was perfect. “You have a phone,” he adds, hoping that it comes out playful. 

Instead, Wooyoung stares back at him with a bizarre expression. Like sadness, flickering with the flame of something more. Desperation, Yeosang realizes, as the younger shoves the bouquet into his arms.

“I didn’t know if you would want to talk to me,” Wooyoung mumbles, shielding his face behind the loose strands of his bangs. Yeosang hated when he hid himself. However, his best friend had once told him just the same. 

“Why would I not?” he whispers, fingers finding the feather-soft petals of the delicate blossoms. They stain the skin red as he rolls their flesh between them. “I always want to talk to you, Woo.”

When he finds it in him to meet the younger’s eyes, he sees tears. Wooyoung, who never cried unless a spider threatened their safe space. Wooyoung, who’s orange soda laughter was a song from the past. Wooyoung, who painted sunsets and sunrises in the way he moved.  _ Wooyoung _ . 

“I tried to kiss you,” he breathes. “And it wasn’t right. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Why–”

“Because I love you, asshole. I don’t know when it started, I just know that I woke up on some god awful spring morning when we were sixteen. You were in my bed, your stupid pink hair sticking up in a million directions, and all I could think about was how I never wanted someone else to see you like that.” 

When Wooyoung stops speaking, his voice has reached a squeaky pitch like the nuts and bolts holding a Ferris wheel together, Yeosang feels the salt of his own tears drip onto his cracked lips. An ocean in a desert. 

“Wooyoung-” 

“You don’t have to reject me,” Wooyoung says quickly. He uses the back of his hand to wipe away the stubborn streaks that spill off of his chin. The ones he misses hit the fabric of his hoodie like raindrops on a windowpane. “I don’t think I can handle it if you reject me right now. Just wait until the semester is over. I’ll leave you alone–”

“Wooyoung, listen to me,” Yeosang cries, finally prying himself off of the couch cushions. “I’m not rejecting you.”

“Like I said, please just–” the younger stops speaking. His brown eyes are blown wide as he gazes back at Yeosang. Mouth opening and closing slowly, no words come out. It’s an odd sensation– losing all carbonation.

“You don’t know how scared I’ve been,” Yeosang murmurs, dropping the roses. His fingers are blanketed in crimson and magenta as he intertwines them with his best friend’s. “Last week, I wanted to tell you yes.”

The color on his skin rubs off on the back of Wooyoung’s hand, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Not with the way the little mole under his eye crinkles as his face blooms. A garden of lavender and bright yellow tulips; orchids and violets- every damn color the universe holds. Wooyoung is a garden of wildflowers.

“You were?”

“Of course I was.” Yeosang doesn’t fight the giggle that spills out of his chest. He doesn’t want to hide. Not with only the winter looking in at them from the outside or with the way Wooyoung’s smile is limitless. 

When the younger pushes their foreheads together, the chill of the evening still sticks to Wooyoung’s skin. 

“Can we try it again then?”

And Yeosang doesn’t wait this time. Instead, he lets his fingertips paint Wooyoung’s jaw red as he presses their lips together. Softly; delicately. Wooyoung kisses the same way that he touches, with the tenderness of a fawn walking through dew-covered meadows for the first time. 

He cradles the back of Yeosang’s neck. His hands are cold, ghosting over the older’s nape and tangling with the long hair there. But Yeosang doesn't know if the shivers that run down his spine are from the frosty grace. 

Wooyoung loves like he lives; with vigor and the endlessness of a strawberry sky. The fizzy orange soda dropped from an abandoned desert vending machine. And when they finally pull away, somehow gasping for air as though the kiss was anything more than tentative, that buzzing sensation does not leave Yeosang’s lips. Wooyoung, he realizes, will always linger. Even in the most subtle ways.

“So, are we still fake dating?” 

Yeosang answers him with a cuff to the back of his head. 

“Why did I have to pick Christmas to spill my guts to you?” Wooyoung asks. The room is dancing in glitter and fairy lights, still strung up from his parents’ decorations. “It’s going to make everything so stressful in the future.”

Yeosang hums but doesn’t budge from his place curled against Wooyoung’s chest. The younger always chose the most inopportune moments to have a serious conversation. If this could be considered that. 

“Sangie,” his boyfriend whines, poking the dip of Yeosang’s hip until he squirms. “Let’s change our anniversary.”

“Can’t,” Yeosang groans, snuggling deeper into the soft rug in front of the fireplace. “Too many numbers to remember. Christmas is good.”

“Christmas,” Wooyoung squawks, “is an expensive holiday! Think about it. Now you’re going to have to get me a birthday gift, a Christmas one, and an anniversary one.”

Yeosang finally opens one eye. The fire flickers before them, warming his nose with a gentle flush. Or maybe it’s the wine. When he rolls over to face Wooyoung, the brunette grins back at him. 

“Oh, so your concern is dedicated to my wallet? Not the fact that you’re running the risk of me completely forgetting all three of those dates?” Yeosang asks, chuckling when Wooyoung’s smirk disappears.

“You wouldn’t forget my birthday, would you?”

“November 23rd,” Yeosang throws back. He knows that it will earn him a well placed pinch on his hip, but it’s worth it. Even so, Wooyoung’s crestfallen expression is too much to handle. “November 26th. I’ve had plenty of time to memorize it.”

“You’re an asshole. You forgot it last year,” Wooyoung frowns and pulls him closer. “I deserve a kiss for that.” 

“Insulting me gets you kisses?” 

“No, but telling you the truth does.” Wooyoung tacks on a cheesy wink before Yeosang slots their lips together. It’s slow, messy with slight tipsiness, but for them it’s home. 

It’s only when Yeosang runs his tongue along the plush curve of his boyfriend’s bottom lip that Wooyoung takes advantage of their position. 

Carefully, he rolls them until Yeosang’s wrists are pinned to the fluffy shag rug. For a moment, the older can’t stop himself from opening his eyes. Above him, Wooyoung’s figure dances; reflecting the brilliant flames. 

The image spurs blossoming buzz in his chest as he realizes, not for the first time, that they have grown together. The endless beauty that was housed in his best friend’s mind was not the jumping off point for him to drown in. Instead, Wooyoung was the plastic spoon used to lift a fragile ladybug from the depths of a fizzy soft drink.

And before they can get carried away, cradled by desire and the feeling of finally breaking free, the sound of fireworks makes them freeze. 

_ 12:00 AM. A New Year.  _

Wooyoung presses a soft kiss to his nose with a smile.

“How long do you think your parents are going to be at the Lee’s party?” 

“I think we might have a bit of time,” Yeosang says, laughing when the younger flops onto the rug beside him. “Why? Are you tired?”

“Not even close,” Wooyoung murmurs, reaching out to run a thumb over the birthmark inking Yeosang’s eye. “I just want to appreciate you like this for a second.”

And finally, Yeosang lets him.

**Author's Note:**

> ✧ Find me on Twitter: [@KyojinOuji](https://twitter.com/kyojinouji)
> 
> I always follow back and love new friends.
> 
> \- Cheers! ✧


End file.
